


Southern Comfort

by flammablehat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, M/M, Team Gluttony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-10
Updated: 2009-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:23:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat/pseuds/flammablehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was well-known fact that too much charming conversation in well-appointed parlor rooms would encourage a blossom of rebellion in the heart of one Arthur Pendragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Southern Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 Summerpornathon bonus challenge #1: Sex in strange places.

It was well-known fact that too much charming conversation in well-appointed parlor rooms would encourage a blossom of rebellion in the heart of one Arthur Pendragon.

They hadn’t been in the States long – his father, Morgana, her maid and himself – only a month into their overseas tour and trekking steadily West.

By and large their hosts had been gracious, pleasant folk, if assiduously American in character: a quality which amounted to the consistent misunderstanding that wealth and local prestige did not amount to good breeding. Arthur really couldn’t be arsed to enlighten the overly attentive matrons who’d taken to him so forcefully of the distinction. Besides, it made his father’s eye twitch when the silly hens crowed about their daughters’ accomplishments and connived ways of corralling Arthur alone with them. The feigned puritanical outrage that followed comprised the most entertaining aspect of the entire spectacle.

But even with the local amusements, there was only so much of Morgana’s witty dialogue he could take before beginning to long for a straight razor.

That was until the day they’d arrived at the Colonel’s ranch, an ex-pat and old friend of his father’s from the military who insisted upon being called Gaius. It was here he’d discovered that there were worse tortures, more obscure and less manageable, than enduring his pseudo-sister’s double-edged barbs.

The first day, Arthur sneered in the direction of a wiry young ranch hand who looked too frail to tackle a dog, let alone a bloody steer. The boy responded with the molasses-slow mixture of genteel deflection and rural disdain (directed mostly at Arthur’s shiny waistcoat, silver spectacles and fine patent shoes) Arthur had been told to expect from America’s peasant class.

The second day, Arthur learned the boy’s name was Merlin, and that beneath the wide brim of his battered hat, he sported an impressively rugged five-o’clock shadow. So. Not a boy, then.

The third day, beneath the window of Arthur’s borrowed room, Merlin upended a bucket of water over his head just as the sun began to set. Something hot and achy swelled in the back of Arthur’s throat at the sight of Merlin stripping the sodden shirt from his back and using it to swipe over his messy black hair and around his long, pale neck.

The fourth day, Merlin endeavored to teach him how to use a lasso. When Arthur managed to rope a fence-post, he only laughed a little bit.

On the fifth day Arthur shared with Merlin a flask of his finest cognac, and scowled when the uncultured fool slugged back his shots like nickel-whiskey.

On the sixth day Merlin chose to ignore all the rules of propriety and common sense by backing a man of superior station, wealth and power against a barn wall and claiming his mouth like the damn thing belonged to him.

And on the seventh day, to his significant surprise, Arthur found himself being bent over a sheep-skin covered sawhorse in the hay loft, Merlin’s long, narrow chest draped across his back like a blanket.

“Bear down,” Merlin breathed in his ear, pressing slowly, inexorably forward. Gasping, smelling sawdust, pine, Merlin’s skin – Arthur hooked a hand behind him, scrabbling first at shoulder and then neck, dragging Merlin closer as he spread his knees in soft hay and finally felt the triumphant slide of Merlin’s cock bottoming out.

“God,” he bit his lip, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. The softening scruff at Merlin’s jaw and cheek nuzzled into his shoulder, long hands sliding slow and purposeful up the sweep of his chest and down, curling loose around the length of his cock. With each deliberate, languid roll of his hips, he drove Arthur in and out of the lazy circle of his fist, offering only the most miserly brush of sensation on each pass.

“Look at you,” Merlin whispered, kissing the salt from Arthur’s hairline. “Look at me touching you,” he demanded, soft and easy, and Arthur groaned like he was dying, possessed by some perverse submissive demon that made him tilt his head and open his eyes and watch as Merlin’s skinny hips guided Arthur’s rose red cock into his hand.

Pleasure knocked him sideways like a shock wave, and he could only tremble and curse as he painted his discarded silk waistcoat with long strings of white, Merlin’s quiet encouragement echoing in his ear.


End file.
